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About 1200 words

Midnight Moonlight Mysteryby James Foley

At the Carolina Coast Hotel, some guests, bewitched by the full moon, still lounged on the lawns in the wee hours. That September weekend was ending. The sweet summer of 2017 was bidding goodbye. Meanwhile, Conn Franklin, a James Dean lookalike, was coming up the beach from his boat, ignoring Stefanie Ryan waving to him. But Conn's friends, Wyatt Graham and Cooper Peterson, were admiring fair-haired Stefanie.

“If you like them brainy,” Cooper said, “she’s a math fanatic—the best kind, the kind with Helen of Troy's legs and Isaac Newton’s calculus.”

“She's an intellectual?” Wyatt said. “So even a world-class loser like myself can hope?” Now softly, somewhere far off, a harmonica was playing an old dreamy melody, “Midnight Mystery”, as Conn joined them. Conn's lost-soul wildness generally captivated women. But he said to Wyatt, a reserve Navy officer, “Stefanie's for you, lieutenant.”

Wyatt laughed. “You get all the girls, Conn.”

“Not all. She’s out of my galaxy. Go talk to her, Wolf Boy.”

Wyatt's fear of doing that made him do it. “See you in a minute, guys,” he said.

“He sounds like someone adventurous who might help me. Here's my problem,” Stefanie said. “My uncle Ben's dying. He's offered to leave me his old broken-down boatyard where nothing works. It's worthless, loaded with debt and mortgages. But Ben hopes I can make it profitable again.”

Now Stefanie touched Wyatt lightly as she said, “Wyatt, my life's been reckless—with no occupation. My mother supports me. When she's gone, I'll have nothing except the boatyard, if I can save it. But I'd need some guy as a partner, and Cooper told me about Conn's adventurous spirit.”

“Ms. Ryan, any man would be eager to help you. I'd be enthusiastic about it myself.”

“Call me Stefanie, please. Cooper said you're a university professor. I doubt if a rotting boatyard is your milieu. Excuse me.”

Wyatt followed her as she joined Conn, saying abruptly, “I've been wondering if you'd help me with something that's incredibly difficult?”

Conn turned, smiling his lazy smile. “Sure.”

“Don't be glib,” Stephanie said. “Would you do that? Something important to me—that maybe you alone can do?”

“You’ve got it.”

“I doubt it. Anything?” she asked again. “Are you sure?”

“Anything.”

Now Stephanie was leading Conn away—Wyatt's eyes trying to find hers. But she ignored his as in a ‘50's movie. And Wyatt wondered why he couldn't succeed. Spending tomorrow with her, discussing fractals or the digamma function—bound together by passion, mathematics and mystery. Then suddenly he saw Conn lift Stefanie, holding her on tiptoes as he embraced her. That was the End of Everything.

It was all ruins now: the bombed-out cities and blasted streets, the crumbling skyscrapers, deserted highways, toxic air, poisoned earth and ravaged nation. And all the oxygen seemed gone, ripped from the night as Bianca began convulsing, struggling to breathe, her eyes burning out like stars. But as she died in Wyatt’s arms, somehow, miraculously, unbelievably, Wyatt knew that she was smiling.

Then an immense change. Wyatt saw Conn release Stefanie, smiling and making a deep bow, then turning and running down the beach, as if exercising. And at that moment an elderly gentleman, Mr. Wright, happened to be approaching, wobbling and beginning to fall as Wyatt and Stefanie hurried to steady him. “Are you all right?” she asked.

Mr. Wright smiled. “Oh yes, thanks to you and Lieutenant Graham here, our young math genius. Do you know him?”

“Yes, I know him—just didn't know he was a math genius, let alone a lieutenant.”

Wyatt helped the elderly man back up the slope to the hotel. When Wyatt returned, Stefanie said, “He’s so famous, isn't he? He still has that. So you're a math genius, Wyatt? By the way, I've been reading a little math myself—about the beta function.”

“No. He just said derelict boatyards weren't his game. Then he jogged away.”

Saying this, Stefanie stooped to let her hands cup some of the dark water, raising it to her face. For a while nothing else happened: just the moonlight above the churning sea as it swirled and sighed on the sand, careless, indifferent.

Neither Stefanie nor Wyatt spoke. Whatever was building between them drifted with the evening breeze. Until finally Stefanie, splashing white feet in the water, said, “So you're Navy. You must know boats. I didn't realize you have boating experience. That makes a difference—about salvaging a boatyard.”

Wyatt smiled, and in the silence of that night—in the half-silent half-dimness—he said simply, “I don't mind moonlighting at the university. Bringing a boatyard back to life seems challenging. Maybe a quiet guy, Stefanie, can make your venture work, since our adventurer Conn's not involved.”

She nodded, her voice slipping out softly—softer than the shallow waves tickling her ankles as she embraced Wyatt. “We can certainly try,” she said.